


Kneel to me

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Character Death, Knifeplay, M/M, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the asoiafkinkmeme. </p><p>Robb doesn't die right away at the Red Wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kneel to me

“Be still.” Lord Bolton’s voice was almost a whisper, and Robb craned forward, trying to better hear his bannerman’s words. His muscles tensed and back bowed, earning him a disapproving look from the other man. Robb frowned at him, eyes blazing. “I told you not to move, Your Grace.” The honorific really was an afterthought, spoken drily, almost mockingly, as Bolton’s hands, gloved, ran up Robb’s arms. They clenched on his shoulders, and Bolton clenched and unclenched them but slowly, easing the tension, but gripping hard enough to almost pain Robb. 

“Who are you to give orders, Bolton?” Robb rejoined, his voice dropping into the lower cadences that he reserved for his kingly decrees, his battle commands. 

And it had little effect, he knew, observing the ironic quirk of his companion’s mouth, the direct gaze, and worst of all, the intimate grip of his hands, clothed in supple leather to guard against the cold of the draughty room. The Twins was miserable, and were it not for his uncle’s wedding, he would have lodged elsewhere. 

“I am but your humble servant, Your Grace.” He smiled coldly, releasing his hold and easing his thumb onto Robb’s flushed cheek, running it down the curve of the bone, along his neck, and resting his hand loosely around Robb’s neck. 

“And I am your king.”

Bolton laughed, and Robb heard a soft whisper, a metallic sigh, as Bolton unsheathed the knife that always hung at his belt. With his free hand, he held it up to what little light flickered in Robb’s chambers, examining the edge, and slowly brought it downward, laying it against Robb’s neck. 

“What are you doing?” He wasn’t alarmed, assuming that the other man was as drunk as he’d permitted himself to become, and deep down, Robb burned with anger for his own weakness, channeling his annoyance at the Freys’ insults to him and to the lady Catelyn into the sour, yet strong wine that flowed from old Walder’s cellars. And Bolton had been nursing that hippocras all evening, likely bored, watching his new wife, barely out of childhood, giggle and cavort with various young men. She’d even danced with Robb, a plump, silly girl, but adept at the modern steps. 

But that was neither here nor there. 

He was growing annoyed again. “You do not answer your king,” he said baldly, and it was some time before Bolton responded, all the time his hand stroking Robb’s throat, hand on his pulse, thumb probing gently at the dip in his collarbone, the other loosely holding the blade that chilled his neck, softly brushing against the vulnerable flesh. 

Bolton chuckled, and in the darkness his expression was inscrutable. “You are just a boy,” he whispered then, his voice soft, deceptively courteous. “A beardless boy, playing at soldier. Aren’t you?” 

He brought the knife flash against Robb’s skin, and he felt the blade nip into him. While it was not deep enough to endanger him, it grazed the skin, and made the hairs that grew there prickle with the sensation. Robb longed to strike him, to lash out against the hands that held him, so subtly and so gently, hands whose touch repulsed him, unmanned him, made him despise himself for feeling even the slightest twinge of pleasure as he permitted Roose Bolton to service him in his bizarre way, to caress him like some camp follower, like the wife he had left for the march. But even the thought of Jeyne did not disperse the flutter in his stomach or the tightness of his jaw. 

Bolton continued, seeming to forget himself. Perhaps he was drunk, Robb had no idea. “You’re nothing but an upstart, a young pup still suckling at his mother’s teat. You would do well enough to leave the running of the kingdom to men who fought in the field and shed blood there when you were mewling at your mother’s breast.” He did not raise his voice but there was menace in his tone, his directness. 

Robb had had enough of this. Attempting to rise, he struggled against Bolton’s grip, but was unable to break free. And when Bolton noticed his discomfort, he turned the knife so that the blade bit into Robb’s throat, letting blood, scarlet spilling on his tunic, staining hands that clumsily drew to protect himself. 

Bolton twisted the knife, cutting deeper, and Robb gasped at the sudden pain as air hit the wound and as fingers daubed at the blood, still gloved. He realized far too late why Bolton had been clothed such, realized why he’d been so encouraged to drink more and more of the Dornish red, why it had such a bitter edge to it, why Walda had been so intent on dancing with him, distracting him while they doctored the flagon, the poison dulling his reflexes, clouding his judgment. 

“Get on your knees.” Bolton’s voice was hard now, the voice of the man who’d stood over their Lannister prisoners with a sword, expression grim, the voice of the man who’d ordered countless troops to their certain death with barely a thought in their direction. “Kneel for me. Your Grace.” 

He smiled. It might have been charming on another’s face, but it was really just a rictus, a carefully wrought imitation of humanity, thought Robb, humanity that did not flow through Roose Bolton’s veins. 

But he did as he was bade, shambling to the floor, sucking in breath through clenched teeth. What other choice was there? 

Bolton’s hands gripped his shoulders once more, only now he stood behind Robb. Bending close, he brushed his lips against Robb’s cheek, and they were cold against the flushed skin. 

“Jaime Lannister bade me give you his regards. But I prefer to leave you with mine own.” 

And with that, he drove the blade deep into Robb’s back, twisting it. The pain was agonizing, his vision dimming with it as black splotches spread across his vision, and as his breath slowed, and as his life spilled on the floor, he stared at Roose Bolton, standing over him, face in shadow, hands meticulously cleaning his knife, laughing in that horrid way of his.


End file.
